Play Your Part
by Gosangoku
Summary: It was an unconscious schedule by now. They danced around each other and acted their parts. But their own private play had to end somehow. — US/UK.


It was a natural unconscious schedule by now.

They danced around each other and acted their parts; engaging in furious arguments that were only half unreal. They plastered on their faux expressions of jubilance and irritation but sealed off their eyes to the rest of the world in assurance, not hope, that no one would recognise their exhaustion behind their bright smiles and annoyed scowls. They couldn't stop themselves from falling into the pattern; waking up and disguisng their tired bags beneath their eyes, having hot showers to get some colour in their pallid flesh, skittering around the phone and making excuses to call one another but never working up the courage to do it.

They were brilliant actors.

No one ever thought anything of how they never moved as fast as they used to, or how the cheerful man's smile never met his eyes, how the Brit wasn't as easy to rile up, or how they avoided each other almost entirely and hardly spoke when alone together. Nobody ever noticed how they overworked themselves to distract themselves from their masochistic and sadistic thoughts, how the older one wore long sleeves constantly, how the American seemed to get into accidents a lot. They dismissed any passing thought of concern with their wonderful acting. Or, in their perspectives, lying through their teeth.

They couldn't even help but act even when together.

They left the meetings, the Englishman always first to depart as the other rambled to his Japanese friend about new video games that he didn't really care for as much anymore. The younger man then exited, taking another route to where he knew he would find his friend, purposely cutting through alley ways in hopes of something negative happening so that he could placate himself by aiding someone. He entered the pub, the smells of alcohol and sweat and smoke slipping into his nostrils. It once made him feel nauseous, but now the horrible smells were promises of what could be, what will be.

He drifted over to a lone figure sitting slumped over the bar, and couldn't help the passing thought, _You used to be so big_, as he stalked over to fall into the seat beside him. As always, he grinned and made jokes he couldn't remember about his friend's age, and the smaller man retaliated with insults of his own. Steadily, they fell into a regular and comfortable silence, throwing back their drinks. The American never got completely drunk, but he still used that as an excuse whenever he helped the older blond home and shoved him against the wall, lips colliding in a sloppy and miscalculated kiss.

"Alfred..." the slighter man whispered breathlessly, and the addressed man silenced him with another slapdash kiss because he couldn't take the melancholy and fearful tone behind his feigned bliss. He knew that the other blond didn't have the same feelings for him, not entirely, but he didn't want to think of it. He was aware that the Brit's feelings were, at least for the most part, paternal or familial, but he wanted so much more than that.

"Arthur," he gasped in response, excitement not faked as he pressed his lips urgently against his jaw, trailing butterfly kisses down his neck and his chest as clothes were removed, scattered anywhere.

He knew that Arthur kept his eyes hal f mast or clenched shut throughout because he didn't want Alfred to see the self loathing lurking beneath the murky green surface. He realised that he was making it worse by doing this with the older man everytime, but he couldn't stop himself from sliding his hands over the pale and uneven skin, layered with diverse scars; couldn't stop himself from bruising the other's lips with needy kisses; couldn't stop himself from connecting physically with the Englishman since he couldn't do so emotionally.

Arthur's sounds were real, but they made Alfred wince because of the pain and sorrow lacing every moan and gasp and whisper of his name. It made the American hate himself more and more, everytime his abhorrence for himself slipped deeper and deeper. He tried to fool himself into thinking that the smaller man's tears were those of pleasure rather than inner suffering, but he never quite believed it, no matter how much of a good liar he was. And he always had to shut his own eyes as they began to sting whenever Arthur woefully whispered his name as they climaxed.

Something he didn't understand, however, was that Arthur never seemed to want him to leave afterwards. He recalled the first time it happened, and his mind was blank but he could feel the fury and hate he directed at himself, and moved to leave, only for Arthur to grab his wrist and stare up at him. He remembered the vacant emeralds staring up at him, barely noticing the pleas behind them. And Arthur always curled in on himself, clinging close to Alfred afterwards, eyes closed but tears still slipping out.

They both blamed the alcohol.

O-o-O-o-O

The sky was overcast, the sun being hidden behind the thick grey clouds that loomed in the similarly coloured sky. Everything looked grey, and nothing looked content. The buildings didn't seem to stand tall, but to hunch defeatedly. Cars didn't speed through, but instead just carefully plodded along, staying under the speed limit. People huddled beneath dull umbrellas and skulked through the city to get to work.

Arthur ignored the cascade of drizzle, not even noticing that he was getting wet, and shuffled through London with his face void of emotion. He staggered as teenage chavs bumped into him and just continued walking uncaringly when they shouted incomprehensible abuse at him. He knew it was a mistake, but he couldn't help but feel rather relieved when one ran back after him, twisted him around and shoved him roughly against a mossy wall, covered in haphazard graffiti. He was reassured when he felt the blows collide painfully with his face and torso and legs, and only blinked curiously when one pulled out a knife and sliced at one of his arms. He lifted it, and his sleeve fell back, but he didn't hear the taunts when the kids saw his scars.

Eventually, they grew tired of the man's lack of response and left with a few rude hand gestures and crude jibes. There was a heavy rumble in the sky, and the drizzle evolved into full on rain, pouring down and soaking the Brit even more. He let his fringe droop into his eyes as he pushed himself off of the wall, lips twitching upwards when he felt pain pulsate through his arm and a dull ache coursing through his body. He let out a pained breath and stumbled back to the pavement, limping to his intended destination and ignoring the judgemental glares thrown his way.

The roads steadliy grew more full and obnoxious as he approached the hotel. Rain was still falling heavily from the gloomy sky and the brisk wind was chilling. He gratefully entered the hotel, shuffling through the foyer and painfully ascending the stairs. He hated lifts.

_Room 50_, he reminded himself. Alfred usually tried to get that room, and if hotels weren't always so full, he'd probably aim for 1. Quirking a weak smile despite himself, he forced himself to climb the stairs, not even bothering to answer people when they warily asked if he needed assistance.

He hobbled through the corridor and let out a thankful sigh as he stopped before the door with the number 50 engraved on it in gold. Swaying slightly and holding himself upright by leaning against the wall, he knocked, hoping it would be noisy enough to rouse Alfred from whatever he was doing. There was silence for a long moment, and he knocked again, louder, and the door was yanked open. Tired green eyes met surprised blue, and then the American's face contorted into a worried frown.

"England, what happened?" he demanded, unable to laugh it off when he saw the blood dripping from a tear in the older man's shirt and how he was partially doubled over, rather than standing tall.

"Al... America," Arthur said, blearily correcting himself and blinking when his vision swam momentarily. "I..." he began, trailing off when he couldn't voice a reason. Why did he even go to Alfred? They didn't normally visit each other other than after meetings and drinking.

Not waiting for an anwer, the American gently grabbed Arthur's wrist and carefully pulled him inside, kicking the door shut. "Jus' sit here a second," he ordered, hastily going to grab a first aid kit as Arthur lowered himself onto the bed. He lowered his gaze to the thin sheet covering the hard mattress and squirmed uncomfortably, not looking up when Alfred returned. The younger man kneeled before him, opening the box and carefully avoiding the Brit's gaze. Neither looked at each other as Alfred tended to his friend. They didn't speak for the entire time, and Alfred deliberately took his time disinfecting the cut and wrapping it up.

Hesitantly, he paused when returning the items to the first aid kit. "Are... Are you hurt anywhere else?" he asked, finally looking up and blinking in bewilderment when Arthur's eyes were pinned on him.

"America..." he murmured, reaching out and moving to ruffle the boy's hair, before drawing back, knowing that it aggravated the younger man. Instead, he cupped the tanned cheeks with his hands and moved forwards. "Alfred..."

With wide cerulean eyes, the American just watched, both bewildered and fascinated, as Arthur leaned towards him and brushed their lips together. He froze immediately, astonished by Arthur's initiative, and just remained still as the cold, chapped, so soft lips pressed oh so slightly against his own. He gazed into the bottle green eyes and swallowed, unable to detect the reluctance, but still, he raised his own hands to grasp the older man's wrists and pulled away. He swallowed when he noticed Arthur's inquisitive and slightly hurt gaze and told himself not to take advantage of the man in his vulnerable state, ignoring how part of his mind screamed, _Hypocrite! Fool! Why now? Why when he finally instigates it?_

"Arthur..." he responded softly, frowning ruefully. "You... You've no idea how much I want this... How long I've craved and wished for you to..." he trailed off, unsure of what to say and how to say it. Sighing in exasperation, annoyed with himself, he looked back into the patient face of his former caretaker. "I... Arthur, I think..." He sighed softly, dropping his hands and gaze, only for the Brit to intertwine them again. He looked back up, horrified when he saw the tears in the green eyes, but relieved when Arthur pulled him forwards into a hug.

"Thank you," he murmured quietly, burying his face in the American's shoulder. "Thank you."

Alfred remained still for a moment, torn between various mixed emotions, before wrapping his own arms around the older man. Those weren't the words he expected, nor the ones he wanted, but... at least they weren't acting.

**O-o-O-o-O  
**  
They were constantly on guard, nerves on end, not knowing where the other stood. They used to know their lines and predict the other's words, actions, thoughts, because it was all a part of the script written out for then by fate. But they had ruined it; wrongly stopped acting and dropped their guards for just a moment, and connected on a deeper level than what they promised themselves. They avoided each other and tried not to converse, ignoring the odd pains in their hearts and the sinking feeling inside of them, the instinct that this wasn't right and that it was just getting worse.

They couldn't take it. They couldn't dismiss their thoughts and their control ebbed. Alfred's attitude switched frequently just like during civil wars and Arthur's irked nature dwindled until he just seemed devoid of feeling. It got to the point where, finally, others noticed their drastic change in behaviour. At first, they skittered around the subject, just like the first part of Alfred's and Arthur's private play, until Alfred's antagonism and Arthur's unresponsiveness became too much. But it was their play and no one else's, and it gradually fuelled Alfred's rage. He grew possessive, never leaving the Brit alone with other nations he saw as a threat.

Arthur was jealous. He despised how Alfred seemed to get along so well with Japan, how he recurrently exchanged films and games with the Asian. He hated how he and Matthew easily displayed their brotherly affection. He loathed it when Alfred participated in activities with anyone else.

They were sinking deeper into their own little production that every line, every sound, movement, action, thought had piles of subtext layering them like a hidden deadly poison waiting to seep into them. Everything they did was killing them slowly. Relationships became more strained, but were forced to be maintained on some civil level due to their bosses requests and demands.

The scenes were flawless outwardly, but their feelings and thoughts should not have been mingled in with their play. Arthur shouldn't have given in and pushed Alfred down and lowered himself onto him, he shouldn't have kissed him without considering the concequences. He knew he could never have what he wanted, he knew that he had to do his part, and he punished himself for his idiotic mistakes every night. It dulled his emotions and fogged up his mind enough for a while, and it showed him how many mistakes he made.

Alfred had always cared about his appearance a lot, but his mirrors only served for one purpose now. He sought mirrors for answers as his reflection always knew what to do. It may have been abusive, his duplicate behind glass insulting him and constantly telling him he wasn't good enough, and saying how Arthur wasn't good enough to be in his play. But he always went back to te ex-empire, always wanting to kiss him, and part of him always craving to see those tears.

"I love you," they had finally blurted out after a heated argument, after their fists rained down on each other, after they were battered and bruised and so very needy. They kissed and didn't bother to fight back tears, fleetingly feeling free and truly happy in the kiss they shared, only for the playwright's shadowed fingers wrapping itself around them and tugging painfully at their hearts. They pulled away, ashamed of their lapse in their acting once again, and continued with the next scene.

**O-o-O-o-O  
**  
The world was falling into ugly yet beautiful chaos once more. Bombs fell from a blood coloured sky and troops ran around tossing granades and shooting at everyone and everything in sight. Blood and guts and burnt corpses lined streets and people sought refuge in full hospitals and shelters, many houses having been destroyed.

The battlefield was even worse. Soldiers constantly lurched awake from nightmares and writhed in agony and cried for their fallen comrades. Fresh and dry blood coated their flesh and their uniforms, and most of their own wounds weren't tended to. They were no exception, stuck in the line of duty whilst fighting the pain of their countries being torn apart, and Arthur couldn't help but think back to World War II. The agonising memories flew through his mind as he raised his gun to keep senselessly killing the fellow humans who were dubbed as his enemies.

He felt a hand on his unharmed shoulder, and looked up to meet hard but pained sapphire eyes. Silent messages passed between them, the lines they were unallowed to voice, and they kept going. They kept murdering and watching their allies fall, bloodied, wounded, dead.

It was only a matter of time before their parts of the play ended too.

**O-o-O-o-O  
**  
"I... love you," Alfred gasped sincerely, smiling openly and honestly at the wide green eyes.

"A-Alfred, you... we can't..." he began, and then lurched forward, grasping the American's hands tightly. "Don't go saying that like you're about to die!" he screamed, voice lost in the sea of explosions, but still crisp and clear and so painfully sad to his forbidden lover.

"But... I am, Arthur," he replied weakly, still smiling. "And... and I'm... I'm glad... because I can finally stop pretending and... be truthful. I love you... Arthur."

Arthur's eyes stung painfully as unbidden tears appeared and streamed freely down his face, reflecting his very real anguish. "No! Alfred, you're—" He choked on a sob, falling on top of the wounded soldier. "You shouldn't have tried to protect me, you stupid, idiotic, selfless hero," he whispered unhappily, sobbing against his blooded chest and shaking violently as shaky fingers thread through his dirty blond hair.

"Heh... Of course I did," Alfred gasped, "You just said so... yourself: I'm a hero..."

"But you... you can't die! Not before me! I—" He raised his rueful gaze to meet loving blue eyes. "I love you too, Al... I... You idiot, making me say this...!"

To his astonishment, the smile softened, but it seemed so much more content. "Thank... you," he murmured weakly. "Thank you... for loving me back... Art..." he whispered, eyes fluttering shut slowly.

"No... No! Alfred, no! I'll get help, so just hold on!" Arthur begged, unable to stop himself. He shouldn't stray from his lines like this, but he couldn't help it... Alfred... To him, Alfred was his most precious person, and he... "Please... don't die. Don't die... I love you," he murmured softly, but with crystal clarity, and covered the American's cold and bloodied lips with his own. "I love you, Alfred..."

He pulled back after another gentle but desperate kiss, hoping to save the American somehow, like in most plays... but he never had happy endings. Alfred's eyes were closed, lips parted, and he was completely still, unmoving.

"No... I love you... Alfred, I love you...!"

The curtain fell. But there was no audience to offer applause.

**O-o-O-o-O**

_**Axis Powers Hetalia**_** belongs to Hidekaz Himaruya.**

I'm in Spain as I write this. Hola, todos! But yeah, it's the main reason I haven't updated TnO and other fics. I wrote most of the chapters before coming to Spain but couldn't quite finish them before departing, and I'm not on my laptop right now. Speaking of which, I haven't used Microsoft Word in ages! It feels so good. *3* I wish I had Word, but... eh. Whatever.

So... I wrote this depressing piece of crap because I've been kind of blehhh for a little while. And that inspired whatever the bloody hell this codswallop is. I'm not happy with it at all if I'm honest... I think I've just done the opposite of improving. Nonetheless, I hope this placates you 'til I can update my other fics. I now know how I'm ending TnO, but it subsequently requires a sequel if I end it the way I want to... I'll mention this in my author's notes in TnO, that'd be better. I'm just sort of rambling. XD;

Well, my side hurts like hell, so I'm going to stop blabbing now. Later, everyone. Take care. xoxo


End file.
